Free Super Schnoz and the Booger Blaster Breakdown by Gary Urey Page A

along with us. Over a dozen crazed camels were now racing straight for the enclosure’s wrought-iron fence. If Humphrey didn’t put on the brakes soon, the collision was not going to be pretty.
    I closed my eyes and awaited impact. At the last second, I felt Humphrey lurch to the left. And that’s when I went flying off his back. Like a fighter pilot forced to use an ejection seat, I vaulted over the enclosure’s fence and landed nose first in front of a food cart selling Italian sausages.

    â€œThat was freaking awesome!” the guy behind the cart gushed. “I’ll give you ten bucks to do it again.”
    â€œOffer me a million and then we’ll talk,” I said, wiping dirt off my honker.
    â€œI’ll give you sixty days in the slammer!” a familiar voice hollered from behind me.
    I turned and saw the tall security guard, his pink face still glazed with camel spit. The guard pulled out a pair of handcuffs and lunged at me. I countered his attack by stabbing my nose hard into his belly. The guard cried out in pain, grabbed his stomach, and then crumbled to the ground.
    The other guards rushed toward me. I kept them at bay by using my nose like a sword, slashing at them like an extra from a bad gladiator movie. Just as they were about to overtake me, Humphrey let out a loud grunt. He was staring at me through the fence with his big, sad camel eyes. He then turned around, pressed his butt pressed against the fence, and poured out globs of poop.
    That was my cue.
    I fought my way to the fence, scooped up two big fistfuls of Humphrey’s million-dollar bum brownies, and sprinted as fast as I could back to the Boathouse.

CHAPTER 17
    CHAMEAU MERDE
    I was a wanted kid.
    An ANB—All Nose Bulletin—went out for me. Every police officer assigned to Central Park was looking for me. Park-goers cleared out of my way as I hurried down the paths leading to the Boathouse. Swarms of flies, hungry for the clumps of poop in my hands, buzzed my head as I ran. After a close call with two of New York’s finest, I finally arrived at the restaurant.
    The hostess at the Boathouse refused to allow me inside.
    â€œI told you,” I pleaded with her. “I’m with Pierre du Voleur. He rented a private room off the dining terrace.”
    â€œLeave here immediately before I call the police,” the hostess said, holding her nose. “This is not a soup kitchen. You look and smell disgusting.”
    â€œI am not a homeless person! I am Pierre du Voleur’s guest at this restaurant!”
    â€œLet him in,” a familiar French voice said from behind me.
    I turned and saw Pierre. He was glaring at me, his temple vein throbbing and his face as red as a cherry-flavored Sour Patch Kid.
    â€œBut Mr. du Voleur—” the hostess protested.
    â€œThe boy is telling the truth,” Pierre said. “He is my guest. Show him to the toilette so he can clean himself.”
    â€œVery well, sir,” the hostess said and then reluctantly led me to the restroom.
    I locked the door and stared at myself in the mirror. The hostess was right. I looked a mess. My nose was dirty; my jacket and jeans were ripped from flying head first out of the camel enclosure, and fresh hunks of camel dookie were dripping from my hands. However, I took offense at her telling me I smelled bad. What I carried in my hands was one of my most exciting fragrance discoveries since the Gates of Smell and Dr. Wackjöb’s hákarl.
    After carefully wrapping the camel poop in layers of paper towel, I scrubbed my nose and hands. My jacket and jeans still had big tears in them, but at least I wasn’t dirty anymore. I opened the restroom door and saw Arnaud waiting for me.
    â€œI hope for your sake, le Nez,” Arnaud said ominously, “that whatever is wrapped inside that serviette en papier is what Monsieur du Voleur so desperately desires.” He then grabbed me by the elbow and tugged me